His Trophies
by Kaiser Washington
Summary: Anzai is being convicted for murdering Hanamichi Sakuragi, a rising basketball star. Mitsui goes to see his old coach, meeting him for the first time in fifteen years. Dark and introspective themes are prevalent. One-shot. Re-uploaded.


Encouraged by a sense of purpose he never knew he possessed, Hisashi Mitsui strode up to Mitsuyoshi Anzai's front door, and rang the bell. He was here for answers – answers he had hoped he could have found elsewhere, and thus avoided being as rude to Coach Anzai as he was about to be. But unfortunately, the only other person who could have provided him with answers now lay decaying inside a grave. And besides, what lingered of his respect for the coach were only a few odd memories, not powerful enough for him to remember completely; not weak enough for him to forget too easily.

A few minutes passed before the door opened and the old, wrinkled face of Mrs. Anzai peered out apprehensively through the crack, her eyes glassy with cataract, her mouth a thin line set in a deep, perpetual frown.

"Yes?" she said. Her voice had lost much of its warmth. Now there was only that dead coldness that was left behind when all hope abandoned one. Times had changed. She was understandably distressed by her husband's recent court trial, in which he had been accused of murdering a rising basketball star and his former pupil – Hanamichi Sakuragi – out of jealousy and for personal gain. She vaguely remembered Sakuragi's face. "Who is it?"

"Mrs. Anzai," said Mitsui, not allowing any sense of familiarity to creep into his tone. "May I come in?"

She then recognized him – by his voice. She could never forget him. Hisashi Mitsui – her husband's favorite player.

"Oh, yes, Mitsui," she said, opening the door wider to allow him to enter. "You must be here to see my husband. He hasn't been doing very well lately, what with… But you know all about that don't you? Such a shame…" She began muttering to herself, almost as if Mitsui were not there, wringing her hands. "How could they believe… They didn't honestly think… I mean, he was his coach… What a shame, this whole affair… What is the world coming to? What a shame…"

Mitsui cleared his throat, making Mrs. Anzai start.

"Oh, you know where his room is." She tried smiling, but it seemed to pain her, for she resumed frowning shortly. "You don't need my permission. Consider this your own house."

Mitsui wordlessly headed toward his old coach's room. Mrs. Anzai sighed and shuffled away in the darkness toward the kitchen, a frail hand on the wall to guide her. Light was of no use to her anymore.

He registered a mild incredulity when he saw what his old coach had become, but the feeling died just as soon as it had come. Anzai was not much thinner than he had been fifteen years ago, but he had the distinct appearance of being terribly sick, and being ravaged by sickness incessantly. His eyes had lost their bright twinkle; and when he looked up from his bed to see who had entered the room, his expression was blank.

Mitsui stood by the bed, staring down at what he had once thought was the personification of all that was good in the world, with a mixture of pity and disgust. Pity, because of how he looked; disgust, because of what he had done despite how he looked.

"Sit down, Mitsui." It was a command, but it sounded weak, almost as if Anzai had begun doubting, mid-sentence, his authority to command Mitsui.

Mitsui sat down, not on the edge of bed, as Anzai had indicated, but in a wooden chair in a far corner of the room.

For several minutes neither spoke, the only proof that time was passing being the steady, infallible ticks of the wall clock. Then Anzai gave vent to a long-drawn sigh.

"I know why you're here, Mitsui." His words had a tone of resignation. "And I'm prepared to tell you everything I know."

"That would be helpful."

"I realize that you're probably ashamed of me – worse, so disgusted by me that you've lost every semblance of the reverence you once felt for me. And I'm prepared to admit that I deserve it, if you feel like cursing me, breaking whatever relationship we might have once had." He scratched his chin, becoming overcome for a silent moment by the memory of that beatific relationship. "And I also know that I don't want you to think of me as a cheap criminal."

"That depends on whether or not you are guilty of Hanamichi Sakuragi's murder." Mitsui's tone was so startlingly flat that Anzai felt a chill run up his spine.

"Shouldn't the police be able to tell you that?"

"They already have. But I want to hear it from you."

"Well, then there's no use beating around the bush. I did kill Hanamichi Sakuragi."

Mitsui clenched his fists in spite of himself.

"But you have to realize that only I did what I thought was necessary at the time."

"Why did you think it was necessary?" Mitsui's voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Why, the boy was dreaming big again. He said he wanted to go to America." He let out a small, bitter laugh. "And I told him he had much to learn, but he wouldn't listen to me. Then I found out from his best friend that he was planning on sneaking away without my knowing it. So I went down to his apartment that evening, and killed him. I used…"

"I know," said Mitsui. "The police have drawn rather a vivid picture of what you did. There's no need to repeat it."

"You wouldn't have thought an old man like me could have done something like that, would you?" There was a touch of pride in his voice, along with a hint of disappointment in the fact that he wasn't permitted to finish his story.

"What did you do after killing him?"

"I bribed the night guard – the only one in the building who had seen me enter it – to return home, and deny having seen me there that night, should anyone ask. Then I returned home myself."

Mitsui nodded, and rose.

"And you were inevitably caught. I have heard what I wanted to hear."

Anzai chuckled softly to himself.

"I did what was best for that boy."

Mitsui stopped at the doorway.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"If he had gone to America, he would have become lazy, and his skills would have deteriorated."

"So you killed him."

Anzai nodded, feeling proud.

"I saved him from becoming a wasted player."

"And now he has ceased to be a basketball player at all." Mitsui placed a hand idly on the doorframe, registering the smoothness of the wood. "You killed him, not because you were worried about his skills deteriorating, but because you were afraid he would train under a different coach, and do well. And that other coach would take all the credit for everything you had taught him." He sighed inaudibly. "I know. I used to feel it, too. You regard your players as property – as trophies meant to be polished until they shone brilliantly, and then stowed away forever on a shelf."

Coach Anzai stared at Mitsui, his mouth half-open, speech stifled in his throat.

Then Mitsui turned and left. He did not look at Mrs. Anzai, who was standing outside the bedroom door, listening plaintively to their conversation.

* * *

><p>Two men and a woman sat around a round table in a living room, the only source of illumination being the screen of the cell phone one of the men held in his hand. A soft breeze wafted in through the open veranda door, whispering eerily into their ears.<p>

"Rukawa," said Mitsui. "He's dead. The doctors said he suffered a heart attack and died in his sleep."

Rukawa nodded wordlessly, staring blankly at the screen of his cell phone, scrolling up and down the name list aimlessly, his thumb hovering over the name "Sakuragi" for a brief moment, trying to recall what his face looked like. But he couldn't. All he could think of was that _he_ might have been the one lying in a grave instead of Sakuragi, if he had been only a bit more defiant back in high school.

"He was a very disturbed person," said the woman.

"Ayako, you're a psychologist," said Mitsui. "What do you have to say?"

Ayako turned to Rukawa.

"Do you remember the time you asked him if you could go to America? Back when you were still in high school? He denied you permission to go. One of his players had already died after going there. He didn't want to see another meet the same fate. You were young back then, so you agreed without protest. And he was happy, because it meant he wouldn't be losing any more of his precious players." She tucked a stray bang behind her ear. "But when you went off to America after graduating, he became agitated, and restless, and because of his advancing age, it had an effect on his psyche, too. He hated you after that, if you remember; practically loathed you for betraying him and running off to some American coach. He thought you were only going to America because you were unsatisfied with the quality of his training. His suspicions were confirmed when Sakuragi, another of his precious basketball players, asked him the same thing. His ego couldn't accept the thought that he was a mediocre coach, or the thought of losing one of his most precious trophies. If you remember, Sakuragi was the least talented person who had ever been audacious enough to dream of being a basketball player. It was Anzai who molded him into the ace player he later became. Anzai naturally didn't want him to go, so he did the only thing he thought logical. He killed him. If he couldn't have Sakuragi on his shelf, he wouldn't let anyone else have him, either."

Rukawa's hand went limp, the light of the cell phone blocked by the clothing of his pants.

Mitsui sighed, and for the first time in ages, permitted himself a smile of relief.

"Well, at least we know Rukawa's still safe."

But when Ayako nudged Rukawa, his body fell limply off the sofa.

* * *

><p>"Here," said Mrs. Anzai, stuffing a wad of cash into the bemused night guard's hand as she shuffled unsteadily out of Rukawa's apartment building, using a stick to guide her. "If they ask you, tell them I did it. Tell them I did it for him."<p>

* * *

><p>AN: Originally published on August 18, 2010.


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